And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous

Love In A Hut, With Water And A Crust, Is - Love, Forgive Us! - Cinders, Ashes, Dust.

But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The Brier, For Winds To Kiss And Grateful Bees To Feed.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.